


strange how I fit into you (there's a distance erased with the greatest of ease)

by smithens



Series: a love that won't sit still [2]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Books, Chores, Domestic Bliss, Epistolary, Family, Laundry, Love, M/M, Oblique Cultural & Historical References, Richard "Dick" Ellis, Shell Shock, Suicidal Ideation, This Whole Thing Smacks Of Gender, Through the Years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:34:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23708473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: Six years after they meet, Thomas and Richard move in together.It takes more than love to run a household.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Series: a love that won't sit still [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1747162
Comments: 26
Kudos: 116





	strange how I fit into you (there's a distance erased with the greatest of ease)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [InfiniteCalm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InfiniteCalm/gifts).



> title from [eric's song by vienna teng](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ImgK6DRGTZE):
>
>> strange how we know each other
>> 
>> strange how I fit into you  
> there's a distance erased with the greatest of ease  
> strange how you fit into me  
> a gentle warmth filling the deepest of needs
> 
>   
> for InfiniteCalm ♥ ♥ ♥ 

_August 18, 1927_

_Dear Mr Ellis,_

_…I made a mistake because I was afraid, but the truth is you have seen me in one of the lowest places I've ever been and it somehow made you like me more, so I'm not going to let myself run you out like I have done everybody else who's ever wanted to be kind to me. I'm not nearly so clever as I like to think I am but these days I do know when I'll regret something. I hope you can forgive me…_

_Yours sincerely,_

_Thomas_

* * *

**York, June 1933**

"Could always take it some place tomorrow."

"Oh, so we're paying for that now, too?'

"My sister – "

"Has enough to bloody worry about as it is."

Richard nods; he rubs at his mouth and chin with his hand. The man needs a shave. Thomas wouldn't complain if not for how uneven his stubble comes in. He'll never manage a proper moustache and a beard would take too long to get presentable. But that doesn't stop him from trying every time a bloody bank holiday comes round… he can set his own hours, but he can't set the standards of the public. _Take some pride in your appearance,_ Thomas always thinks, _whatever happened to Mr Brilliantine._ If he were to say any of that out loud, Richard would cruelly remind him of how much he likes feeling his unkempt face on his thighs, so he doesn't.

Doesn't stop him from wanting to, though.

This should be an occasion, really. Thomas Barrow's very first long weekend. And his very second weekend-at-all. Not that it means very much of anything when he'll have to work some of them all the same, but these ones he doesn't.

"How have you been carrying on for the last year?" he asks. It sounds more stubborn than he means it.

"Hannah always did it," Richard says. His lips quirk at the corners.

"'Cause you lived in her house…"

"I did the pressing and steaming," defensive. At least they both know they're the ones with the problem, here.

Unfortunately there is a crucial step that comes before _pressing and steaming._

"Yeah, well, that's all I know how to do, too," Thomas retorts. That and get marks out of things, but they don't need to do that right now. "Not very helpful when we've got a pile of soiled whites, is it."

"You can cook but you can't launder?"

Thomas glares at him. "Yes."

Despite his best efforts for the contrary, all Richard does is laugh. As if he could do any better. "What sort of household were you running at Downton Abbey, that you can handle every chore but this?"

"It wasn't bloody finishing school," he snaps. The words sting more than Richard means for them to, of that he's sure. He never sets out to _make_ Thomas feel inadequate; it just happens by accident… but there is something else than _inadequacy_ here, and it's not something he wants to look very close at. "I'm not a housewife."

"Ladies don't learn to keep house at finishing school," Richard says. He's smiling. Not taking this seriously at all. "They have maids for that."

"Do you see one of those anywhere?"

All those years he spent making fun of the family for being so hopeless at these things, and now here he is and apparently he can't manage without a maid, either… but Richard's had time to _learn._ Thomas moved out of Downton Abbey less than a bloody fortnight ago.

Richard raises his eyebrows. "You're taking this very seriously," he says airily. He leans against the door frame, legs crossed at his calves with one knee open. Indecent, dressed how he is, vest and braces and corduroy trousers. He looks like a fucking farmer.

"Sorry for wanting to wear clean clothes."

"I thought the home took care of some of yours."

"Need something to wear in the street, don't I?"

"Do you?"

Nobody gave him the right to have a grin like that…

Thomas huffs. He stands up. He is not going to do this by himself, but he's also not going to sit here and wait around for him to stop teasing. "Are we going to do it or are we going to talk about it?" he asks, but it's the shove to Richard's shoulders that makes him quit lolling about more than anything else.

"Don't pout, Mr Barrow," he says, still beaming.

In the kitchen (the kitchen, they have their own kitchen, just theirs, and an icebox and a scullery and everything) they find out that despite best intentions they have neither lye nor a grater nor soda crystals because they just moved house a week and a half ago and all their worldly possessions combined amount to very little and _neither of them know anything about doing the fucking washing._

Richard walks down the street to make use of the telephone kiosk, and an hour later Hannah (now Walker, née Ellis) shows up with a wicker basket and an eye roll.

"To think between the three of us we've worked sixty years in great houses…"

"Fifty of those are ours," says Richard.

"And yet."

Later in the week Thomas goes over to do the pressing and steaming; when he comes back with a stack of clean clothes, Richard thanks him with kisses and a table set for tea.

* * *

_Feb 14, 1928_

_Dear,_

_Happy Valentine's Day. I hope you enjoy this card. I did not make it myself, but I chose it with you in mind. Sorry. Although I can't imagine you'll care very much. You know what it's like when all your waking moments are taken up by running round getting things in order for the upstairs. If I had thought to I would have written this a few days ago and sent it to arrive today, but I didn't. And you won't be back from Norfolk for another week or something anyway, so you'll read it the same time no matter when it gets there. I hope you still want to hear from me once you are. I don't like going all this time without a word from you. How am I to know there isn't some handsome chauffeur or somebody who's caught your eye at Sandringham House if I've got no way of checking in on you? I am sure you catch eyes wherever you go._

_Well, I have told you this before but this is not my favourite time of year. It never has been because it's never been for me what it is for other people. Other people at Downton at least. Back before the war I used to write Valentines to the housemaids and practise copying other people's penmanship as I did it... I wasn't very nice as a lad._

_We make a good team don't we? You can talk like other people and I can forge signatures. We could be criminals in a detective novel. I think we're morally corrupt enough wouldn't you agree? Or maybe you wouldn't. But even so, have you ever noticed how sometimes the people in those things are too familiar? I've never liked that. By the way, I finally finished the other H.C. Bailey you recommended a while ago. If they're all like that one I can see why you like his mysteries, but I was right, I did prefer Rimingtons. Thank you again for recommending them though because you're right that they exceeded my expectations. Just remember you owe me the same courtesy, so tell me when you've finished The Enchanted April. I still can't believe you hadn't read it already. Now who's uncultured? (Although if you've tried it and you don't care to finish it you can just tell me. I won't be offended. Well I might be a little offended but that isn't the point. I'll come up with something else for you to try if you do.) (And I have forgiven you for your country prejudice, I promise.)_

_But I am not writing to you because we're in a literary society so I'll shut up about the books._

_I am writing to you because it has been too long since we last met, and so I would like to remind you of how much I have missed hearing you whisper in my ear and feeling your hands on my body…_

_…_

_…and I know in my heart that each night you are thinking of me, too. You've said as much, haven't you?_

_Your Valentine._

_X_

*

_Sept 23, 1928_

_Dear Richard,_

_I've just picked up my pen and I already know this is going to be a soppy letter, so don't you judge me when it is. I am warning you now._

_I got back to Downton from seeing you off about an hour ago and now I'm sitting in bed writing to you. I am guessing that you are speeding through the Midlands right about now, probably sleeping, because I hear that is what you like to do on trains. Maybe someday we'll be on a train together instead of on two different ones going different places and I'll get to see it for myself. Where would we go? You're the daydreamer between us, not me, so you'll have to tell me once you get this. Don't you dare say York. We've been there already. It is not nearly so interesting as you seem to think. You'll tell me I haven't seen very much of it, but whose fault is that? Yours, I should think!_

_But I digress._

_I wanted to thank you for today. You wouldn't let me say it to your face so I'm writing it down. I may not have seen much of York the way you want me to, but I don't need to, because it already has something nowhere else has given me before. I have told you about where I grew up, and I have told you about Downton. The latter is better now than it ever used to be, but I don't think I realised until a few hours ago that it isn't my home and it's never going to be no matter what I do or how hard I try to make myself fit in. I have wanted it to be home. That's all I've wanted, actually. I've lived here long enough, haven't I? But it isn't and I just need to accept it._

_I realise that sounds pathetic so let me be clear: I am very happy. More happy than I have been for as long as I can remember. I didn't know what home felt like so I thought I must have found it and it just wasn't all it was cracked up to be. I was wrong, and after today I think I know that. I think I know what home feels like. Or what it should feel like. This is a mess of a letter already isn't it? Does any of this make sense? I won't pretend to know what I'm talking about but Dick, the point is I have never felt happier than I did this afternoon with you having Sunday dinner with your family and I don't know how I can tell you that in a way you'll understand. I don't. I can't even put into words all that I am feeling right now. I have too many reasons to be grateful to you and maybe once I've calmed down I'll write a list but I can tell now isn't the time for that. Come morning I'm just going to have to stick this in an envelope and send it off because this is mortifying enough already and I am not going to want to reread it, let alone try to write it over again a second time, but thank you._

_Tomorrow I'll have to write you something that doesn't make me seem off my rocker and follow this up with that so you don't think I've gone mad._

_Your loving,_

_T.B._

* * *

**York, August 1933**

Night duty comes round every week or so.

 _Not_ like clockwork, and that's been the hardest part to get used to… working with children, every day is different, and every shift is different, and he can't expect everything to happen when it's meant to because something can always come up. It's not like running Downton Abbey. It's not like running a military hospital, neither, though it's closer. Aside from that, though, he doesn't mind it as much as the others do. Sometimes he even likes it, because if nothing else the _hours_ aren't too far off from service when it comes down to it. He leaves at half three and gets back at half past midnight, takes an hour or so for himself before sleeping, and then gets up at quarter to eight and feels indulgent even on just a few hours of sleep. Working in service had him up til past four in the morning on more than one occasion.

The novelty might wear off someday, but he can't imagine that happening any time soon. He went more than twenty five years waking up at six o'clock every day, after all — and that was six o'clock at the _latest._

The only problem in his eyes is it cuts into his time with Richard, but even that could be worse than it is. After five years of him living in London and their seeing each other just once or twice (three times, in '28, but that was a special case) (and then there was when he _didn't_ live in London) a year, he's not going to complain about their going to bed at different times. On night shift days he sees him before he goes into the shop and when he comes home in the middle of the day for dinner, and that still feels too good to be true and more than enough to satisfy. He's less sure of how long _that_ will last, but it's not a problem for them yet...

So he's not bothered and he won't complain. (When he _takes over_ at midnight, it's a different story, but the bright side of that one is he gets to keep Richard company when he goes to bed… then he sleeps on the sofa for a couple of hours so the alarm clock doesn't ruin his night.) Besides, that hour or so is good for him: he has supper, and then he can read, do a crossword, wrap up some mending…

Tonight it's the latter, and he's set up at the kitchen table with his own shirt. Really this should've been done already, but he was feeling lazy earlier in the week and he didn't. What a luxury it is, feeling lazy and getting to act like it 'cause the only person it's going to affect is him.

Leaving service has changed his work ethic, no doubt about that.

It's really only a problem when both him and Richard are lazy at the same time. At work he's as efficient as ever, and the work he does means something, too, so he's got more pride in it than he ever did before. Funny how that one works. Who could have guessed he'd feel better about how he spent his time day in and day out when he was taking care of people who really couldn't do it themselves, instead of… Well, the opposite.

Behind him the door creaks as it opens.

He hadn't heard footsteps on the stairs, had he? Thomas turns around.

"...haven't you got work in the morning, Mr Ellis?"

"It's Friday," Richard replies, just about smiling, but it doesn't sit easy on his face. He's in his dressing gown, arms wrapped at his chest holding the collar shut at his neck. It's not cold enough for that. "Or it _was_ – "

"Yeah," Thomas says, "that still doesn't mean anything to me," but he's not especially sour about it. He turns back to the sewing box. If he's right about where this is going, he should start wrapping things up.

Now behind him, Richard lays one hand on his shoulder, gentle. When he next speaks it's with a different voice. "Can't get back to sleep."

"Picked up on that one," murmurs Thomas, and he crosses his arm over his chest to thread his fingers through Richard's and squeeze.

He has to be the one to say first, Thomas has learned that about him. Richard doesn't like the idea of other people knowing his feelings without being told them, which is rich seeing as he's had a foolish smile on his face since the day they met and can't seem to hide anything from him to save his life… but he's not like that in the rest of the world, is the thing. Just with him. It's not a problem until he remembers about it, really, although he does get miffed sometimes when he can't read _Thomas…_ as if he isn't the only person who ever comes close to understanding what's going on in his head. But he doesn't quite know how to reckon with that yet, Thomas thinks. Even after several years. It's different when they live together and see each other all the time. When they would meet up in the past, Thomas was usually in a good mood. He was getting to see Richard, after all… which meant Richard only ever encountered him in his dark places over the telephone or in long and embarrassing letters. Now they share a bed every night and he knows that it happens more often than he ever let on.

One of these days he's going to get in a bad way and it's going to ruin _everything_ —

Well, after everything they've been through that's not a thought that makes sense, is it.

"Would you come to bed?" asks Richard, quiet.

Wordless, Thomas pushes the mending toward the centre of the table and snaps the box shut. It'll be there for him in the morning, untouched.

When he stands and turns round, Richard's not smiling anymore.

He has his own dark places.

"You don't want tea or anything?"

Richard shakes his head.

Thomas starts to say, "I'll be up in a moment," but one look at his face again makes him reconsider… he can leave the supper dishes on the table, too. He's the one who'd mind, not Richard.

So they go up together, and Richard sits on the bed looking small while Thomas undresses himself and puts his things in the wardrobe. (This he can't be careless with, because that _would_ bother Richard in the morning, clothes being left out. You can take the man out of service but you can't take service out of the man.)

"Wanna talk about it?" Thomas asks as he crawls into bed, and Richard, joining him, says, "I don't know."

After turning the lamp off, he asks again.

"Not much to say," he says this time. "Didn't hear you come in, so I must've woken up shortly after you arrived… then I made the mistake of turning the lamp on, then I found I couldn't shut my eyes again… same as usual."

That's all the things he could've guessed on his own, "so, no, you don't want to talk about it."

"Yeah."

Thomas finds his arm under the covers and rubs it up and down a few times before tugging him closer. "Well, I'm glad you came down to get me," he says, and when he shifts up to give him a kiss on the forehead, that's when Richard closes his eyes.

He doesn't like thinking about how Richard gets on when he's not home in the night. It shouldn't make him feel the way it does when the man slept alone for years after the war and did just fine, but he can't help worrying. How did he manage on his own? Before he had Thomas next to him under the blankets, before he had him to telephone or even to write to… it can't have been very nice. It's not very nice now, for one thing.

But tonight's not so bad. He's himself; that's good. He's not worrying about somebody making him go some place that he's not been for fifteen years, neither, and that's also good.

He's just shaken.

"So, tomorrow's the weekend," Thomas tells him. "Or, today."

If you're a pedant, and Richard is.

"Yeah."

"What're you gonna do?"

"I haven't decided."

"Don't _have_ to do anything."

"I'd like to… you'd think I'd be used to it by now, been more than a year and all, but I feel badly if I don't. The trouble is I never know what to do with myself when it comes round."

"Every week, you mean."

Richard laughs, a little. Enough. "Yeah."

"You could always pretend like it's a weekday," says Thomas mildly. "Do everything like normal."

"You're asking me to shave."

Thomas swipes his thumb at his jaw. He's prickly already. "I may be."

"Guess I'd better find something else to occupy my time, then…"

They keep talking until Richard's answers get too short to do anything with, and then it's just Thomas saying silly things that don't much matter but that Richard likes hearing until he falls back asleep.

* * *

_Nov 13, 1929_

_Dear Richard,_

_I write to you now from the butler's pantry with my feet up on the desk and a glass of wine in my hand, using a clipboard I ordinarily get out for doing inventory to pen this letter. I am behaving like a naughty child, and it's not a bad feeling, I have to say. Probably it should be, given the occasion, but you know me, Dick. When do I ever do things I should?_

_So, yes, I am drinking this evening, and Daisy made a chocolate pudding of her very own recipe. I have eaten more of it than I should have (there, I've answered my own question), but I am allowed to be indulgent in my old age. When you are forty yourself then you can criticise me for enjoying myself, but I don't think you will. You'll understand then what it is like. You probably do now. You are a man who knows how to enjoy himself and has no shame in doing it. I should be more like you in that respect, but you and I both know I've got enough shame for ten._

_I should be happier than I am, too. Birthdays are happy occasions, aren't they? They never were for me until a few years ago. I hated them. Hated knowing I was older and that the years were passing me by. I guess I've told you this before, but it bears repeating now that I'm thinking about it again. I've liked the last two years more than any I can remember before them, but I still don't ever feel happy for longer than a moment. It may be that nobody really does and everyone around me has just been pretending all along, but I don't think that's it. I don't think people can pretend so well as that. People who aren't you, at least. But I do pretend, myself. I got low to a point not everybody does and I feel like I've been pretending I didn't ever since. It's been four years now. When I think about other things that lasted for four years it's hard to believe. Every summer at that time I get nervous. I wish I'd known then what I'd have in the future, but then I don't think I'd have everything I do if I hadn't gone as far as I did. I had to go all the way to rock bottom and climb my way back up again the proper way. With people helping me up. We've all been nicer to each other since then, by 'we' that's everyone up at the big house who was here before it happened, but I still wonder sometimes how much they mean it. I know they haven't forgotten because even after four years they get nervous when I'm some place with the door locked for longer than they like. I think they are all waiting for me to go back to the way I was just like I'm waiting for them to do the same. I don't think I will, but I'm not sure about the rest. You can't say because you didn't know me before. It used to be that made me worry, like you would find out the way I really was, but now it doesn't. I trust you when you tell me you care for me because I know you're not only doing it because you feel responsible for things that nobody but me is responsible for. I know that you actually like me, and whenever I get close to forgetting you always find some way to give me a reminder._

_You've made such a difference in my life I think I've got a new before and after. What I thought my life was going to be before I went into service, before the war, before that summer, etc. has turned out to be very different from what actually happened. After all those things I felt lost, and I think that lasted until I met you, and now I get to feel "found". Forgive me for the poetry; I'm not so good at it as you are. The point is that's what happens when you live for forty years. Things happen and they change you._

_I haven't wrapped my head round the number yet. Some days I don't even feel like I'm properly an adult, let alone a forty-year-old one. I never had a chance to live out my youth the way I wanted, so maybe that's why, but I've given up on my old fancies and let all of that go. It ought to feel real by now. I've had plenty of time. When I was twenty I didn't think I would live this long, but here I am even so. No thanks to me, although I know you'll disagree. You say so often enough._

_Well, here's to forty more, I suppose. That would be 1969. Can you imagine? I certainly can't. I'll bet you can, though, knowing you. I'm sure you've got plenty of optimistic things to say about what the world will be like in forty years, but I haven't._

_Here in Downton we're not being very optimistic about anything at the moment._

_Your loving,_

_T.B._

_P.S. You bastard. I was about to seal the envelope when the telephone started ringing. Thank you. You don't know what it means to me to be able to hear your voice when I'm feeling like this._

* * *

**York, September 1933**

"Why do we need one?" Thomas asks. "Who do we know that has one?"

Richard starts naming names. Mostly it's just his own family members, and he does have plenty. They probably make up the entire bloody market for it, in York… Nobody would guess that, looking at them. It seems frivolous, to Thomas, when they're all in the same neighbourhood or at least on the same tramline, no longer is the Ellis clan spread about in royal residences all over the country, but he shouldn't complain when it made the ten whole months when Richard was here without him so much easier.

"They have one at Downton," he adds.

"Two," says Thomas, and in his opinion that's a good reason to see _one_ as a needless extravagance, "and the day I telephone Downton Abbey is the day Hell freezes over."

"We'll have to make you a to-do list for when the time comes, they way you go on about it…"

He's not funny but he laughs at his own jokes. It makes Thomas feel warm and crackly inside. A fire on the hearth. There was a time not very long ago when he did laugh at everything Richard said, like a chirruping schoolgirl, but it came and went. These days he mostly just smiles and lets himself feel amused, and sometimes that's all he can muster up, besides.

Moving here was meant to make him happy, and he _is_ happier than he's ever been before, but it turns out that no matter how much you love somebody you can't expect yourself to be content with everything just because of him.

Especially when he's been badgering you about a bloody telephone for weeks on end.

"We can afford it," Richard says, after he gets over himself. He wraps his arms around Thomas's waist from the back and kisses the top of his head.

"You would say that, you're not the man who does the books," Thomas replies, grumpy. They can, though, or they _could,_ at least. They are two grown men with two full incomes, and so far they have had enough left over at the end of the month that they could. If they wanted, and he's still not sure why exactly Richard does. Now's not really the right time to be adding expenses just because they _can._ They should be saving. Just because they have the means now doesn't mean they always will, not with the way things are going for everybody else. It hasn't been long enough yet to know if anything's for certain. "Were you going to help me or not?"

"I am helping," says Richard.

"No, you aren't."

"I'm helping," he murmurs in Thomas's ear, sing-song.

He isn't at all, but Thomas doesn't mind so much as he's pretending he does. The more things change, the more they stay the same: the only way he can be sure a job gets done as he likes is to do it himself. Richard's got his own little things like that. More than three months living together and he still won't let Thomas take a needle and thread to any of his clothing. _I was a valet, too, you know that,_ he'd said, _I know how to darn a bloody vest,_ and Richard had lifted his chin and raised his eyebrows and they'd had an actual row over it, their very first row as a couple who live together. At the time it was awful. Now it's almost funny.

Almost.

Every other week Thomas takes charge of the laundering, and on wash Sundays Richard 'helps' by keeping him company while he rubs stains out of things and grates soap.

They considered sending it out, but drawing attention to the fact that they're two men who've set up home together is the last thing they need. His sister May did offer to take it, and so did Hannah, and so did his cousin Louisa, and so did his brother's wife Charlotte, but Thomas has too much pride to take any of them up on it. Louisa's the only one who doesn't work out of the house, and that's because there are children she's got to look after into the bargain… if Richard's sisters can do the bloody washing on top of everything else so can he. They wouldn't have offered to do it for them if he weren't a man and he knows it.

Ten years ago he'd've been furious at the mere idea of washing his own clothes. Now he gets peevish when people act like he can't.

He just had to _learn;_ that was all.

"How did this get here?" Thomas asks, holding up one of Richard's shirts. It's soft; the pinstripes are faded and have been for ages now. There is an unidentifiable blotch on the sleeve up by the shoulder that wasn't there a few weeks ago when he last washed it.

Richard sets his head on his shoulder. His cheek scratches. Tomorrow morning he'll shave and Thomas will pretend to be relieved. "I don't know," he says lightly. "Must've been at work."

"It's not tailor's chalk," Thomas retorts.

"Maybe on the bus."

"You had your jacket off on the bus, did you?"

"Had it off some place," says Richard, nuzzling his neck. He holds him a little tighter, moves one hand up to his chest and the other lower than it needs to be. "Maybe here… I get distracted, don't I, Mr Barrow."

"Yes, you do," says Thomas, snippy, if reluctantly so. "And now you're distracting me, so get."

* * *

_Jan 12, 1930_

_Dear Richard,_

_While I wait for you to telephone I thought I would write you a letter anyway. I know I've kept you waiting, and I'm sorry to have done. I've been busy, but you know what that's like. Speaking of keeping people waiting, your mum told me to tell you to write her back. I'm sure I'll say this to you in an hour but in case I forget there it is. I told her that this is a very busy time of year for you, and she said that when she worked for Queen Victoria they didn't have any of the modern conveniences you do and she still managed to find the time to keep correspondence with her dear mother and father. So, you have no excuse. Everybody else says hello and that they miss you and wish you could have come home for Christmas. Surely some of them have put this to you in writing by now but I am passing on the message even so._

_Other notable things from Sunday dinner that I'll try not to ramble on about once I've got you on the telephone:_

_I got to hold Ruthie. Dick, in my forty years of life I have seen some very sweet babies, and you just may have the honour of being uncle to the sweetest of them all. I hope you can come meet her soon. It doesn't feel right that I should get to see your niece before you do._

_Teddy is about as tall as I am, which I do not remember as being the case the last time I saw him. This is what happens when first footmen breed. Maybe by the time you see him he'll be as tall as you are, which, as I have said in the past, is not actually that much taller than me. Just so we're crystal clear._

_You must have received yours weeks ago already, but Hannah gave me the scarf she made. I can't believe you managed to keep this a secret from me. I am very impressed with you. Luckily, I did not cry in front of anybody in your family when I opened it but I felt like I could have._

_I don't know what you told May and John, but I had only been in the house five minutes when…_

_…_

_…well, it is five minutes past. Knowing you I am assuming you'll be calling in the next 2-6 minutes, so here is as good a place as any to stop._

_I wish you had been there today. I am thinking of you._

_Your loving,_

_T.B._

*

_March 29, 1930_

_Dear Richard,_

_…I don't know if I'm interested in reading anything with "Western Front" in the title. You must realise your review was not especially glowing? Based on what you've written it does sound realistic at least, although whether or not that's a good thing I couldn't say. I want to say it is too soon for realism where the war is concerned, but I suppose according to most people it's been long enough. It's hard to believe that more than ten years have passed since then. I'm not ready to think too much about it, and I don't know if I ever will be. If I may, it sounds like you aren't either. I can read between the lines. Please know that you can share your thoughts with me. We never do talk about this ; once it's your turn you always try to change the subject. I feel that I've told you everything I can bear to and you haven't done the same…_

_Your loving,_

_T.B._

* * *

**York, October 1933**

The door creaks on its hinges as it shuts.

Before Thomas can think about what this means for him — all those lies he'll have to keep up with, more stories to get straight, it's never ending and he's just so _tired_ — the bed is shifting underneath him and there's something (Mrs Ellis's knitted Afghan, or Miss Baxter's quilt) (no, there's yarn on his cheek, it's the Afghan) more round his shoulders.

Not just the blanket.

"What'd you need?" Richard murmurs. He is very, very close. "What can I do?"

Thomas shakes his head. Tears prick at his eyes again, but he keeps them shut tight — _seeing_ is the only thing he can put a stopper in, no matter what he'll still have to hear and feel things. No matter how much he wishes otherwise. Not much to see even if he wanted, though, it's the sun's just about gone down and he didn't bother to turn on a lamp before. Dark and cold, even with the curtains open. The days just keep getting shorter; working nights doesn't help. Maybe if it were summer…

"What can I do, Thomas," says Richard into his ear. He lies down behind him all the way and slings his arm across Thomas's chest, and the weight of it is soothing as much as it is suffocating.

He wishes he had it easier. That he could only feel one of those things at a time.

He wishes all of this were easier.

"What's happened? Has something happened you've not told me about?"

He shakes his head.

Richard takes his mangled hand out from under the blanket and holds it, squeezing tight. It makes his third and fourth fingers cramp, but that's something to feel that isn't dull and numb and nothing, so he doesn't mind it.

He does mind when Richard's thumb traces up on the inside of his wrist.

"Don't," Thomas chokes out.

He lets go.

"If," Richard starts, "if I hadn't come home when I did…"

"But you did."

"Yeah," he says after a moment. "Yeah, I did, I – God, Thomas," and he buries his face into his back and shoulder and tugs him tighter with his arm, breathing heavily. "Oh, Thomas."

"It's too hard," Thomas whispers.

A small kiss at the nape of his neck, beneath his ear, at the corner of his jaw.

He barely feels them.

"I wish it weren't."

"I can't."

"I know."

It's Tuesday. Eventually they get out of bed. When he thinks Thomas isn't paying attention Richard jams the door latches and takes the shaving kits out of the washroom, rearranges the cupboards in the kitchen. Apparently he can't even be trusted in his own home.

"You won't let me be useful," Thomas mumbles. He's seated on the floor at Richard's feet, a pathetic heap, wrapped in a blanket and with a mug of tea within reach, though he's let it go cold. The sofa is right there, and that's where he'd started, but sitting properly feels wrong, and he's not going to laze about in bed all evening. A few hours ago that was all he wanted. Things can change so quick sometimes.

Richard doesn't look at him. Too busy pressing a collar. "You do this every week, Mr Barrow," he says. He only ever calls him that when he's flirting or trying to cheer him up or such like.

"And?"

"And you might let me for a change," nonchalant in a careful sort of way. "You've just been burning the midnight oil a bit too often…"

"I've been _working_ at midnight," mutters Thomas. They're short of staff: more nights for everybody. He had today off, and he'll have tomorrow off, and then he'll go in Thursday night and make himself useful somehow.

"You're not going back to work for seven to ten days," Richard says sharply. He sets down the iron. It probably needs to be heated again but he won't leave Thomas alone to do it. That's all they need, is him doing a shoddy job of the ironing… "You're ill."

"I'm not _ill_ – "

"No use arguing about it," interrupts Richard. "Settled it when I telephoned, wasn't even my suggestion."

"Because you _lied…_ "

"Thomas, you and I lie every day of our lives – "

He stops talking at the first sniffle. Somehow he manages to sit even after Thomas has slumped over with his head against his calves; he wraps his arms around him and takes his head into his shoulder. Thomas doesn't know whether he should feel guilty for allowing him to sit on the floor like he is or thankful that he wants to or both. "I'll take the week off, too."

"We can't afford – "

"We've got family," Richard says softly. _We,_ he says, not _I._ "They'll look after things. That's what they're for, isn't it?"

"You can't quit everything for just me," Thomas says, hoarse. He's not sobbing; he doesn't have the energy for it. But he's not dry-eyed either.

"I can," he returns. "And I'm going to, Thomas."

"Why," he mumbles, "why, why, why," over and over, because that's the only question he's got in his head left to ask. He's not even sure he wants the answer.

"Because that's what I'm for," still so _soft,_ when Thomas doesn't deserve that at all, "that's what I'm here for, love."

"'m not worth it."

Richard doesn't bother arguing with him. "I love you," he says. They don't say it very often; Thomas doesn't deserve him saying it now. "God, I love you."

"You shouldn't."

"But I do," breathes Richard, clutching him close. Nobody's ever held him like this before and especially not when he's feeling the way he is now. Somehow that registers for him. "I do," reassuring. "Fuck, I should've _noticed_ – "

"Didn't want you to."

"I know, Thomas." He kisses his temple. "I know."

* * *

_July 1, 1931_

_Dear Richard,_

_After I read your letter I burnt it in a jar and dumped the ashes into the fire. Not a trace. For proof, here is a smudge from my hand:_

_It also got on my shirt, which I had to shake out. You'll be pleased to learn I am writing this letter in my underwear. The things I do for you… the point is the secret is safe with me. I'll have you know I've spent 21 years keeping secrets about Earls so don't you worry about word getting out. It sounds like it will even so, but it won't be my fault it does. I only hope it never comes up in the dining room._

_I don't know what to tell you. Surely you knew already what H.M. thought about "men like that". But that doesn't make it easy to be reminded, does it? I know you've got the same feeling about this that I have or you wouldn't have written to me about it, even if you won't say so. I am grateful you wrote. I wish you wouldn't talk the way you do, but I won't fault you for it because I do know what that's like. Please remember I am here for whatever you need that I can give. You can count on me. I don't know what I'm for if not that. If you need anything I'll be waiting at the telephone all week from 23h to 2h (if that won't work out let me know so I can get some sleep. I know that's early for you but it isn't for me anymore.) And let me know if you need me outside those times too. I'll sleep in the pantry if I've got to. To be honest if I need to get a late train to London and a milk one back I'll do so. Just say the word._

_Always your loving,_

_T.B._

*

_July 5, 1931_

_Dear Richard,_

_Well, if that's how it's going to be why did you bother writing to me at all? I am glad to hear you are all right. You say you are at least, but you said a lot of other things too so I don't know if I should believe you. You know why I take this seriously, don't you? It's not funny to me. I don't think it is to you either, no matter what you say. Sometimes the way you talk makes me worry._

_If anything changes you've got to let me know. And do send a telegram if you want, or if you'd like me to come up or if there is something you need me to do. I put it into Lady Mary's head that someone I know is ill and all I've got to say is he's taken a turn for the worse to get time off. She's sharp, she knows I'm lying, but we have an understanding she and I._

_And now I shall stop behaving "like a housewife." How dare I worry after you with all we've been through. The nerve of me I swear..._

_Still your loving,_

_T.B._

*

_July 15, 1931_

_Dear Richard,_

_It's me, your housewife. If I don't hear from you soon I'll be coming up to London to make sure you're alive and well myself, and it will be very embarrassing for you, so send word soon. And if I have to do that you'd best believe I'll be telephoning your mum first and I know you don't want her to fuss. Unlike her though I'm not convinced no news is good news so please be in touch. I know I'm keeping on at you but I think you'd do the same for me if I said those things and then disappeared for a week and in case you've forgotten nobody at the Royal Household knows who I am anymore so I've got no way of knowing if anything's happened and I worry._

_Your loving,_

_T.B._

*

_July 18, 1931_

_Dear Richard,_

_Shall I threaten to telephone your mother more often then? Thank you for bothering to write back to me and so soon. Really you shouldn't have, I'm only your lover._

_Of all the things I expected you to say in all this, your being offered a promotion wasn't one of them. I hope you realise you've been whinging about your status in the R.H. since the day we met. Seems odd to me that now you have a chance to move up you won't take it. I can see why you wouldn't want to, after everything that's happened. I can. But Miller is a fool for leaving on principle like that and you'd be a fool if you did too. You'll tell me I do foolish things on principle and you're right but it's different when it's turning down the best job offer you will ever get in your life._

_But because I like to be helpful, enclosed are several listings out of the papers in Yorkshire and nearby that may interest you. I know you've said you aren't interested in being a butler, but I'd like you at least to read that one. You may be young to do it but so was I and if I may say so myself I turned out fine. Then the rest are just asking for a valet. I was surprised there were any but it looks like some people are still trying to live in the past. Frankly, Mr Ellis, you are overqualified for all of them, and the pay won't be what you're used to, but in this market beggars can't be choosers, can they? Of course, one look at your reference and these people will be begging you to work for them and not the other way round, but I doubt anybody can be flexible on the compensation so keep that in mind. Depending on the house there may be other benefits than pay. Really only one of them is worth pursuing to be perfectly honest. You'll know which I mean once you've read it._

_I did ask Lord G if he knew of anybody looking for a valet and he looked at me like I was touched in the head. I think he thought I meant for me. When I told him I had a friend then he was more understanding. I am not sure if he realised that by friend I meant you. He said no, he didn't know of anybody, and, and I am sure this makes you feel wonderfully, that he pitied any man put out of his position in these years, O the plight of the modern domestic, rubbish like that. He's still got a valet himself, of course, so I can't be too angry with him, but these people hold our lives in their hands and I don't think they know it. Not even here in fairy tale service land where all of us ought to have been sacked years ago and instead get invited to family weddings._

_On that note the Bransons are elated. I thought I'd be envious, and I am, but I came to like Lucy and I'm happy for her. I wish you could have been there to see her walk down the aisle. It was in Saint Michael and All Angels (I didn't believe he'd go through with it til I saw him standing up there) and she wore her Sunday best to do it. A mauve dress and a cloche on her head. You'll understand why that's important to me. When we spoke she said she misses you and everybody else at the Palace (that's what she said, "everybody else") but I don't think she'd trade it for all the tea in China._

_But, yes, Lord Grantham has no idea. Let me know if you change your mind about managing a household, though, because I do have. Obviously I'm talking about the butler position included in this envelope. You won't even bother applying for reasons I'll get to in a moment but it is nice to think about us working in the same family. Almost as nice as it is to think about us not working for families at all!_

_Look, Dick, you and I both know very well that you're taking the job. You'd be daft not to and it's what you want. Your mum is going to be thrilled, you know that? If it makes you feel any better send her the difference in your wages or something. Or put it in the bank and save up to leave service eventually before you die, or to retire and move somewhere with different laws or something and bring me along with you. I don't know. Come up with something that makes it feel more worthwhile. But you're going to take it. You can quit by Christmas if you like but you're going to give it an honest go. I won't think less of you over it so don't you fret over silly things like that._

_You know where to find me if you need me._

_Your loving,_

_T.B._

_P.S. And quit worrying what "His Majesty" is going to say to you. He doesn't care about your opinion and he won't say anything to your face about anything. As far as he's concerned you're a wind-up doll that gives him clothes and occasionally compliments his cufflinks. Does he even know your full name? Get your head back where it belongs, please._

* * *

**York, November 1933**

Come winter (almost winter) he realises he might like night shifts more than he thought he did… mostly because he stops having to do them so often, which makes him realise that when he's on a regular schedule he hardly sees the sun at all. When it's there to see, at least, which it isn't always. The children help, usually, whether it is or not, but if he made them responsible for his temperament it would change every five minutes, so he can't.

Today is the sort of day that makes him wish he'd fucked off to India the first time he ever had a chance: rainy and dark and cold.

Despite all that, he's not in an especially bad mood.

He might even be in a _good_ mood.

It is always nice knowing he's coming home from work at about the same time Richard is, but that didn't do much for him yesterday nor the day before, so he probably can't chalk it up to that.

And once he's through the door he finds out, courtesy of the hat and jacket on the hook, that Richard beat him home. If he weren't bringing in more every month than Thomas was he would wonder sometimes if he ever worked at all.

Not that he's complaining.

He gets out of his own damp clothing before going to bother him in the scullery, where he is doing the washing up.

They need to stop letting that get the better of them, but Thomas himself hasn't been up to much beyond getting himself to work and putting food on the table and, sometimes, if he's feeling especially capable, doing the washing, for weeks now, so he's not about to blame Richard for putting it off.

How did he manage at Downton, when he didn't have anybody to take care of him when he got like this? How did he do it? He doesn't think he ever could again.

"Fucking – _Jesus,_ Thomas – "

"Good evening to you, too," Thomas says to the back of Richard's neck. He really needs a haircut. Thomas will have to get round to giving him one sooner rather than later. (Neither of them are ever in their lives going to have to visit a barbershop again, if he can help it.) "Have a good day at work?"

Richard sighs. His shoulders are tense. "I wish you wouldn't sneak up on people."

"Only ever do it to you, don't I?"

He's wearing an apron; Thomas slips his hands under the front of it and starts playing with his tie.

"Had some kind of day at work," says Richard eventually. Poor man's exhausted, and he is like wax under his hands.

"Let me finish this up for you, then."

"'Salmost done with."

"I can do it."

"I've told you already, Thomas," soft, "you've nothing you need to prove."

Nice thought, but not so relevant now as it has been.

"I'll finish it," murmurs Thomas into his ear. He slips away from him, trailing his fingers up along his waist and ribs as he does. Apparently he wasn't dressed to the nines today: this isn't his best shirt. "Go upstairs, darling."

The space is only just large enough for them both to be in it at once, when they're not front to back.

Richard's hands stop moving in the basin.

"Are you asking me to…?"

"Mhm."

Thomas picks up the dishrag. For a moment he is terrified that this is going to end only in rejection.

It doesn't. Richard turns to face him properly, gives him a kiss on the forehead, and then is gone.

In his absence Thomas washes and dries what's left of the dishes and puts them away with care. The past few hours or so have been the first he's really _felt_ something for ages, and he doesn't know how long it will last… but he doesn't think he's wasting them on this. It can be nice, keeping house. He's got good reasons for doing it.

But there are many things that are nicer.

He counts walking into the bedroom to see Richard taking his stockings off among them.

Catching himself up doesn't take so long, and while he's putting his suit in the wardrobe Richard comes up behind him — he's not quite so stealthy as Thomas is — and takes hold of his hips.

"Arms up," says Richard, and Thomas obliges him without a word. He drags his vest up and off of his torso, arms and head with ease; Thomas turns round.

"Well, I'm happy to see you haven't forgotten how to undress a man yet," he tells him, with what he hopes is a smirk but may just be a soppy smile instead. "Guess you did have all those years of practise, even if it's been ages since we last – "

Richard, him and his excellent sense of self-preservation, interrupts him with a press of his lips to the corner of his mouth, and then he follows it up with something more involved.

Luckily for Thomas, he hasn't forgotten how to kiss, either.

"You're not half so funny as you think you are," he murmurs against his cheek.

"Hark at _you,_ Mr Ellis," replies Thomas, and now that he's free to wrap his arms around Richard's neck he does, pressing kisses up along his jaw. "Somebody's a hypocrite."

"Is that any way to woo a man, Mr Barrow? Calling him a hypocrite?"

"Am I wooing you, or are you wooing me?"

Richard draws back, one eyebrow lifted higher than the other, lips open. For a moment he just stands there, and Thomas shifts his weight on his feet, nervous, feeling scrutinised.

"How are you feeling?" Richard asks.

"Fine," defensive.

"Are you, really?"

"Yes," he says, snapping, but the look on Richard's face anchors him somehow, keeps him in the room and the moment. When he lets go of him and pulls his arms away, Richard takes hold of his wrists. He tilts his head. Thomas swallows. "No, I…"

"Thomas…"

"I – I feel good. Actually."

"Do you?"

Thomas nods. "Yes, I do."

It isn't real until he's said so, though.

"You're certain?"

"Yeah."

And no matter what it's felt like, Thomas hasn't forgotten anything, either.

* * *

_April 6, 1932_

_Dear Richard,_

_Everybody who tells you you should write novels should have a look at that letter you sent me first. You had a lot to say didn't you? Were you holding back on all of that while you were here or did you not think of it until after you'd gone? Either way, I'm sorry it's taken me so long to write back. We've been busy at the house, but you know that already._

_Since you asked me what I think, I think you should at least stick out the year. You don't want people to think you couldn't handle being the principal valet, do you? If you can just hang on til July that would be better than leaving now. There's no hurry. You're not so miserable as you could be. If you're not going to do that, at least find a place somewhere else before you leave. I won't deny that I am partial to the idea of your moving back to York, but if you've been reading the papers lately (and I know you read the papers) you know that now is not a good time to be out of a job, not that there is ever a good time for that. It pains me to think of you all alone up in London but that does not mean it is not for the best at the moment. And believe me it does pain me. How many times have I said so before? Too many to count. Please do not act like I am saying all these things because I don't care what happens. I do care. I wish you would see that. This is hard for me, too. I miss you so much it hurts. But if you handed in your notice tonight and caught the milk train to York in the morning it wouldn't make a difference if you still hadn't found work six months from now, and you wouldn't thank me for that, would you? So I can't tell you what I want you to do, only what I think you should do, and what I think you should do is wait. That's what I'd be telling myself to do in your shoes. Bide your time and don't go until the time is right. Nobody is pushing you out. You're lucky to have a choice, you know that? I would remind you that I have been without a job before and you never have. You don't know what it's like._

_But I'll stop harping on._

_I know you just had time off three weeks ago, so if nothing can come of this then tell me and I'll say no more about it, but I was told today the Crawleys are going up to London on Thursday the 28th and returning Sunday the 7th of May, and I'll be going with them. I have a little money set aside if we wanted to get a room somewhere for a night. Far as I know they are not planning on entertaining, so whatever day is best for you should be okay for me. Yes I do realise this is a busy time of year for you and that this is very short notice, but we went for so long not seeing each other and now that we have done all I want is to see you again. You'll tell me it's my fault for making you take the job and you're probably right, but you didn't have to listen to me, did you? And you don't now. But I'm right and you know it, so you should. I wish I wasn't right, though. I wish I could ask you to quit and move back home and see me every half-day I get, but I can't._

_I'll close this here. I miss you. You know that, don't you? I miss you so very much. I think of you every day and night._

_Your loving,_

_T.B._

*

_May 21, 1932_

_My love,_

_(Yes, that salutation means what you think it does. You are very welcome.)_

_Happy birthday to the jolliest goodest fellow I know!_

_To be perfectly honest with you after writing that I already want to scrap this and start over but you're a silly man—don't you start—and I know you like when I stoop to your level, so I'll leave it. But just know it is with reluctance that I say such daft things for the sake of making you smile. I'm joking of course. I'd do just about anything to do that and we both know it. So, how is it being forty? Do you feel old yet? I don't know how you've gotten away for so long with never feeling old. I think I've felt old since I was twenty-two and there's no going back now._

_No more beating about the bush. You have one gift already so consider this letter another._

_My darling, it has been more than two weeks (I know you're keeping a better count than I am) now since I last touched you…_

_…_

_…tell me, do you miss having me in your bed as much as I miss having you in mine? If you didn't before, I hope you do now._

_Your beloved._

_X_

*

_July 16, 1932_

_Dear Richard,_

_My very last letter to your Buckingham Palace address! It was only a matter of time. I can't say I'll miss it very much. I can still write to you once you're in York and with less to worry about too. Both for the post and the telephone, now that I think of it. We are done with trunk calling. And done with wasting four hours on a train and done with paying for a room at that pub out in Poplar so we don't run into anybody and done with shaking hands at King's Cross and done with all the other shit that comes with me being here and you being up in London. Five years almost exactly. It's about time. Sorry for my language._

_From all you've told me I think you're right it's time to get out now. You have done your time and things are changing. Not even the King and Queen can live as though it's 1895 forever. That's good for working people like you and I, I think. Or it will be eventually. I sound like you, don't I? You'll make an optimist of me yet, Dick._

_But I should warn you things are different here than they are in the south. I know you've visited but it's not the same as living here. It's bad. Even in the village. According to everybody at the dining table it's worse in Northumberland than in Yorkshire but that isn't very encouraging looking round here. Some of the housemaids went into Ripon for the market last week, and they didn't have very good things to say about it once they were back. To tell you the truth I am worried about how much longer they'll want to keep me on here. I've never had good luck finding work any place else and if that was going to turn it wouldn't be now. Not with things the way they are. I don't have family to put me up and get me into a job like you do._

_Even so, I am counting down the hours until I get to see you again. I think this will be a good thing for both of us. Let me know if the plan changes. I hope it doesn't, because I simply cannot bear to wait any longer than I have been already. Like I said, it's been long enough._

_Yours,_

_T.B._

**Author's Note:**

> i took some nonfiction anecdotes about 19th & 20th century footmen & valets just absolutely Hating laundry a bit too seriously. then i wrote a fanfic about it. 
> 
> this fits neatly in with another verse i have going right now, which keen eyes will probably spot, but i'm not putting them both in a series Officially until that other fic is further along, which... will probably be a while because i'm stalled on the next chapter. you'd think i'd be using all this time i have in bed with pneumonia to like, finish works in progress but instead i just keep writing new things ! incredible. don't stan my work ethic folks.
> 
> p.s. i had a whole notepad .txt full of possible titles With Parentheses from this song and i went with the longest because i was enabled.
> 
> find me on tumblr as [@combeferre](https://combeferre.tumblr.com)!


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